


Of Apples and Wings

by dcjuris



Series: Being Human [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 13:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: Castiel experiences his first panic attack. (These works are not in any order at all, other than the way they come to me.)





	Of Apples and Wings

In retrospect, they really should've seen this coming.

"Cas! Fruit's here!" 

Cas steps into the Bunker kitchen just as Dean sits their latest fruit delivery on the island. _Fruit of the Month_ club is emblazoned in giant red letters on the side of the box. It's November, so this shipment contains apples, straight from New York State _the apple capital of the world_ as Sam called it. Cas is fully aware that China actually produces more apples, but he also knows—because he has learned the hard way—that people don’t always appreciated being corrected.

He's had an apple before, of course. Asian steppe nomads often traded apples before the Silk Road even existed, and Balthazar always liked them. But these are a mix of Gala, Akane, and Honeycrisp, all of which are new to him. Still, eating an apple as an Angel and being _told_ it's sweet and crisp isn't the same as eating an apple as a human and actually _tasting it._

Dean pulls a knife out of the block— _You don't have to specify that it’s a knife block, Cas. It's the only hunk of wood with knives sticking out of it_ —and hands it to him. "Wanna do the honors?"

He definitely does. He's found that, while being Human isn't often filled with many large wonders, it's definitely filled with hundreds of little ones. Like fruit crates and getting to open them first. He takes the knife and slides it along the taped seam of the box. The thing about cutting things open—the thing about doing anything, really—is that it's vastly different from Angel to Human. Angels see distance precisely. Humans don't. Cas doesn’t.

His hand slips when the knife no longer has resistance and he slices the blade along his other palm. Pain lances sharply up his arm and he drops the knife with a hiss. Blood wells up and pours onto the island.

Dean winces. "Lemme see." He takes Cas' hand in both of his and gently prods the cut. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Gonna need stitches. I can do it, or we can go to Urgent Care. Your call."

Cas stares down at his hand with annoyance. Stupid, fallible, fragile body. "You can do it."

"You sure? It's gonna smart. They can give you the good stuff."

"I'm sure."

"'Kay. Hold it over the sink for a sec." Dean disappears out the door.

Dean's gentleness in times like this never ceases to amaze him. The switch from aloof friend to fully invested caretaker is instant. Nurturing is written in Dean's DNA, carved into his soul like the Enochian runes on his rib bones. Cas side steps over to the sink and watches his blood drop and splatter onto the porcelain.

Dean returns with the first aid kit and a bottle of alcohol. He gestures to the booth seat. "Come sit."

Cas lowers himself into the seat and Dean hands him the bottle.

"Drink up."

He swallows down a few gulps—whisky, it turns out. He doesn't ask where Dean had the bottle, though he suspects it was tucked away in his room.

"Ready?"

Cas just nods.

Dean sets about cleaning the wound with a calm born of too many years playing doctor on the road. Cas never understood the phrase _hurts my heart_ until he met Dean. The man's easy familiarity with violence and gore hurts his heart.

"Okay. Show time. Sure you don't wanna go get a local?"

"Positive." He holds his hand still as the needle pierces his skin. It hurts—of course it does. But with the amount of injuries he's constantly incurring—Human depth perception is a complete joke—he's used to it. The suture material slides through his flesh and Cas' brain slams him into a memory. From nowhere, he can feel his wings being torn apart. It makes no sense. No sense at all. His wings are long gone. But he _feels_ them. Feels the razor sharp wire so deceptively delicate destroying his feathers, slicing through them as easy as air. He hears his own tortured screams, hears Raphael's voice asking again and again _Do you denounce Dean Winchester?_

"Cas?"

Suddenly it's too hot. His chest feels as though it's surrounded by a band of steel that just keeps getting tighter and tighter. He tries to breathe—knows he's gasping and gulping like a fish out of water—but he can't get any air. The acrid stench of burnt feathers fills his nose.

"Cas? Hey! Sam! Kitchen! Now!"

This can't be real. Can't be happening. How did Raphael find him? _Do you denounce Dean Winchester?_ "No!"

Something's happening around him. He hears movement, booted feet running toward him, snatches of conversation.

"Get behind him and hold him."

The _him_ must be him, because there's warmth at his back now. He wants to sink into it, feels like he _should_ sink into it.

"Cas? Hey, Cas? C'mon, look at me."

There's warmth on his face now, too—a hand, he realizes. He focuses on the points of contact, tries to respond to the voice calling to him, but Raphael is so much louder. _Do you denounce Dean Winchester?_

"Cas?" Fingers tap on his temple. "Whatever's in there isn't out here. It's not real, Cas. I need you to come back to us, buddy. C'mon. Come back. Open your eyes."

It takes every ounce of energy he has, but he opens his eyes.

"There we go. You with us, Cas?"

"I..." The phantom pain recedes, but the fear remains. He still can't breathe. Humans need to breathe. _He_ needs to breathe. He has to find a way to breathe.

"You're okay. You're here in the Bunker with us, and you're safe. Lean back a little, okay?"

But he can't lean back. His muscles are hard as stone and they won't answer him. He can't move! Humans need to breathe and Humans need to move and that means he needs to breathe and he needs to move but he can't do either. He can't move! He can't breath! He can't move and he can't breathe and—

"Cas!" Dean's hands come up to cup his cheeks. "Look at me. Look right here at me. Right in my eyes."

Green. Dean's eyes are green. He finds them through the ever-thickening fog.

"You are safe. Whatever's in your head is not happening right now. I know it feels like you can't breathe, but you can. I need you to concentrate and breathe, Cas. Breathe. You can do it."

The warmth at his back shifts, presses closer somehow, and spreads. Now there's warmth sliding along his chest and stomach. He realizes it's coming from Sam's hands, and it's so welcomed. It makes no sense—the room is still so stifling hot, but the warmth doesn't make it worse. He draws in a shaky, deep breath and some of the air actually gets into his lungs.

"That's it. Good job, Cas. You're doin' really good. Take another breath, just like that."

He does it again and gets even more air this time. Dean's face shifts into focus and Cas blinks against the brightness of the kitchen.

"There we go. You with us?"

Cas nods.

"You know who I am? Know my name?"

"Dean."

"And behind you?"

"Sam." He doesn't have to turn to know it's Sam.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

"The...Bunker. The Bunker kitchen."

"Good. That's good, Cas. You're doin' really good." Dean wraps his fingers around Cas' wounded hand. "Was it the pain or the stitches?"

"Stitches. They felt...my wings. When I was tortured for..." But he can't get the words out. The memories consume him again—the searing agony of his feathers tearing apart. He gulps for air.

"Hey, hey." Dean cups Cas' jaw. "Stay with us. Look at me. Look right here at me."

He manages it, barely. He stares up into Dean's eyes. Green. Dean's eyes are so very green. He's always known that, of course, but like the apples, he never really appreciated the color. Sam's eyes are kaleidoscopic—ever changing. Cas tips his head back and tries to see them.

Sam smiles down at him. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Sam." As beautiful as both of them are through his Human eyes—and even if he wasn't completely indifferent to sexual orientation, he's certain he would still be able to comprehend just exactly how ruggedly handsome Sam is, and how jarringly pretty Dean is—it's nothing like seeing them through his Angel eyes. "I miss being able to see your souls. They're so bright. I used to seek you out, you know, one or both of you, in times when I felt like all was lost, just to look at your souls. They're brighter when you're together, of course. My favorite thing was to watch when you were together."

"Like, _together_ , together?"

Cas looks back down just in time to see Dean wiggle his eyebrows. "Not carnally, no. Though I suppose it stands to reason. But no. Your souls recognize the other. They pull toward each other. Even when you're at odds. Perhaps especially when you're at odds."

"You feelin' better?" Dean asks.

Cas frowns, unsure of how to answer that. He does feel better, but his hand still hurts and now his head hurts as well. Of all the Human maladies he's experienced so far, he truly, truly hates headaches the most. But he nods.

"Okay. We need to finish this. We can either go to Urgent—"

"No."

"It might not be a bad idea," Sam says. "They can give you—"

"I don't want a local and I don't want to go anywhere."

Dean holds up a hand. "Okay. Okay. We'll do it here." He looks up at Sam. "Think you can finish it while I keep him distracted?"

"Of course."

Sam shifts behind him, going down to his knees so he can reach Cas' hand. He keeps himself pressed up against Cas' back, though, which Cas is incredibly grateful for.

Dean taps Cas' shoulder. "Don't look at your hand. Look at me."

Cas takes a deep breath and focuses on Dean's eyes.

"I ever tell you about Sam's bird watching phase?"

Sam groans.

"I don't think so."

Dean chuckles. "Sam was about ten when he found this bird book at the school library. He got it into his head that he wanted to take pictures of all the birds we saw on the road, right? So, I stole him a crappy camera and I'd get his pictures developed whenever I had some spare cash. All the places we went, he never could get a good picture of a hawk for some reason. Just, never panned out. And he was obsessed with getting a hawk picture."

"I wasn't obsessed," Sam mumbles.

Cas steals a glance down at his hand, impressed as always by Sam's ability to be so nimble and gentle with such large fingers.

"So, anyhow, couple years go by, Sam either gets bored with it or grows out of it, or whatever, but he still never got that good hawk picture. Fast forward to, I dunno, three years ago, maybe. We got in a fight. Not, like, end of the world stuff, but just more like me being me—"

"Being a jerk."

"Shut up, bitch. I'm tryin' to tell a story here. Anyhow, I'm driving along some random dirt back road when I spot this hawk. It's sitting on a fence post, just, right there. Plain as day. And for some reason, I remembered that Sammy never got that hawk photo, and maybe it'll shut him up if I come back with one. So I back the car up, and it's still sitting there. So I think, I'm gonna see how close I can get right?"

"Because zoom isn't a thing?" Sam asks.

Dean glares up at him. "Anyhow, I get out, and I'm snapping pics of this thing as I'm getting closer, and it's not even looking at me. It's acting like it doesn't even see me. I keep creeping up, until I'm maybe a foot away, and it turns it's head and just stares me right down. Like, it's pissed. And I'm standing there, and all I can think of is the newspaper headline _Man Mauled to Death by Hawk_."

"Honestly, Cas, this is Dean Winchester, slayer of vampires and werewolves, thinking he's going to be laid low by a bird."

Cas chuckles. "It does seem a rather unimpressive death."

"Fuck both of you. The thing was huge. It picked up one foot, and spread out its wings and started flapping them..." Dean frowns.

Cas feels Sam's hands still on his.

"Maybe a bird story wasn't the most appropriate thing," Dean mutters.

Cas reaches out and rests his good hand on Dean's shoulder. "Please finish."

Dean swallows hard and nods. "So I started to back away slowly, but this thing just leaps off the fence post at me. Chased me all the way back to the car, dive bombing me and screeching at me. I thought I was safe when I shut the door, but the damn thing landed on the hood and just stood there staring at me, like it was daring me to move. I sat there for a good half an hour before it flew away."

"You got some great pictures, though."

Dean laughs. "National Geographic quality."

Sam's hands move to Cas' shoulders. "You're all done."

Cas blinks and looks down at his hand in wonder. He hadn't even noticed the stitches. "Thank you, Sam. Thank you both."

Dean stands and runs his fingers through Cas' hair. "It's what we're here for."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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